


East of the Sun, West of the Moon

by A M Sinclair (phoebesmum)



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:51:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/A%20M%20Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They also serve who only stand and wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	East of the Sun, West of the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in _Present Tense_ , AAA Press, 1995-ish (I've lost my archive copy).

Monday morning, first in the month: team meeting. Conference table gleaming, folding chairs strategically placed all around it, coffeemaker perking in the corner: the image of executive organisation. I remove a stack of papers from my briefcase and cast a glance around the room. Look at us, dressed to kill in our power suits and our knife-sharp uniforms; look at our confident expressions, so bright, so awake, so alert. So in tune with one another; so in control of our situation ...

Who do we think we're fooling? It's all surface, all sham - I know it, everyone knows it. All that we do is keep up appearances. For six years, more than six years, all that we do is play dress-up and let's pretend.

The scent of lemon polish and Colombian coffee, paper and toner mingles with the dry, still, heavy desert air, clashes with a dozen ill-assorted soaps and shampoos, perfumes and colognes, other human odours less appealing. The windows are open, but give little or no relief. It's already far too hot in here, will get even hotter once everyone's assembled, but we never use the air conditioning on the upper levels unless we absolutely have to: state of the art as our system is, it's still slow death to the environment. We prefer to suffer short term. I know. We took a vote on it.

We take votes on everything: from long-term strategy goals, through interdepartmental budgets and salary structuring, to hardware implementation and software upgrades, right down to the commissary menu for the month and what colour we should pick for the Christmas decorations this year. Because once - just once, six years ago - one of us stepped out of line, made an independent decision, took matters into his own hands, acted arbitrarily. And for that one random, selfish action, the rest of us are still paying the price. It won't happen again. Oh, no. These days we're so democratic, it hurts. We're a unit: go, team, go! And we're so busy, busy, busy.

Busy about many things. Many little things. Busy going nowhere.

Taking my seat at the head of the table, I sift through the stack of papers in front of me: copy reports and recommendations from Research and Engineering, Imaging Control and Computer Sciences, Medical and Social Services, Holography and Accounting and all their little subsections, correspondence and daybooks, the upcoming quarter's schedule planner - this last something of a running gag, given the day-to-day unpredictability of our situation - plus Al's ('the Observer's') summaries of Sam's ('the Subject's') latest Leaps and all the subsidiary documentation that _that_ entails. A small mountain of papers, half a forest's worth. So much for ecology. But we have, we tell ourselves, to keep informed. Everyone has to be equally informed. One day one of us is going to make a breakthrough, and there's no guessing which of us might get to be the lucky one. Or when it's finally going to happen.

Only that it's not going to be today.

I call the meeting to order, give Gushie - _Doctor Gushman_ \- a nod to carry on; lean back against the padded backrest of my chair, trying to get comfortable. My dress is too hot, scratchy, tight under the arms; shoes rubbing heels, earrings pinching lobes. Why do I bother to dress up for these things? Keeping up appearances ... like everybody doesn't know perfectly well that I work in teeshirts and jeans most of the time, same as everyone, because nothing else is practical for crawling round the floor rerouting circuitry at four o'clock in the morning when all the techies have long gone home ... I've broken a nail, and the rough edges are driving me crazy. The heat's affecting my sinuses; I know that in about twenty minutes my head is going to be throbbing so badly that I won't be able to attend to a word that's being said, no matter how vital.

Not that I'm attending to Gushie. He's talking about the progress we've made on refining the retrieval program. While he sits there and blethers about stimulated emissions and modulating beta frequencies, I stare mindlessly out of the window, watching a flock of small, fluffy white clouds wander leisuredly across the sky, very high, very far away. I don't need to listen. I already know all this. Know the results.

We postulated an update; we ran it.

It didn't work.

If it had worked, it wouldn't be _me_ sitting here in this chair now.

Then again, as a matter of fact it probably would be. Sam used to be a great believer in delegating unpleasant responsibilities - and he hated team meetings even more than I do. Never bothered to dress up for them, either. He was always one for action, not for words.

As in stepping into the Accelerator and vanishing without a word to anyone ...

There's a scrape of chair leg on tile. I find I'm on my feet, staring back blankly at a haze of startled faces.

"Excuse me," I manage faintly, and nod to Al, sitting across from me in his Military Commander persona. My eyes are so fogged, I can't see his expression, only the blazing white of his uniform shirt. "Can you take over for me? I don't - "

I never finish the sentence; I have to break for the door before the nausea that's suddenly hit me finds a physical outlet. I make it; make it all the way to the restroom, then discover I don't feel sick any more. But my head is pounding as though every synapse were on fire, and my eyes ache, and beneath my breasts my heart is drumming so violently that when I look in the mirror I expect to see it battling its way out of my chest like a science fiction alien. I run cold water in the basin, wet a paper towel, hold it across my eyes, against my left temple, then my right. The pain won't quit. I sink to the floor and sit there, pressing the back of my head against the coolness of the tiles. This is bad. And unexpected. Usually I have warnings; I can either get home in time to lie down, or, if I catch it early enough, I can take a couple of ibuprofen and ward it off.

Sam used to suffer from migraines too - one of the less important and more unpleasant of the many things we had in common. I used to be able to massage them away for him; he tried to return the favour sometimes, but could never quite get the knack of it. He hasn't had an attack since he started Leaping, as far as we can tell. Kind of a drastic cure ...

 _"So, tell me, Sam, why did you decide to Leap ...?"_

 _"I thought it might get rid of my headache ..."_

I start to giggle weakly, which only makes the pain worse. That's where Verbeena finds me. She pulls me up, shoos me down to the medical centre, finds me a bed and a painkiller, leaves me alone with my thoughts.

I wish people wouldn't do that. I don't _want_ to be alone with my thoughts. It's all I can do to hold on as it is. Don't they realise that? Don't they see that the _last_ thing I need is time to think? Time to remember; time to wonder.

 _Why did he leave me? Was it something I did, something I said?_

 _Why doesn't he remember me?_

 _Why doesn't he come home? **Will** he ever come home, finally, one day?_

 _Why do all these strangers matter so much more to him than I do?_

 _Does he still love me?_

 _Did he **ever** really love me ...?_

It's not as though Sam had died. In a way, it's worse. When a person dies - it sounds facile, but ... it's an ending. You grieve; you adjust. You learn to live with it, to accept the fact that they're gone, that you'll never see them again or touch them, never say the words left unspoken. You come to terms with it, as best you can. Life goes on.

But losing Sam has not been an ending. It's a pause. Prolonged, protracted, interminable; unendurable.

I do endure; I survive. But only because I have no choice.

None, that is, that I wish to make.

The Leaps are bad enough. Not all of them are life-threatening; not even the majority of them, though it seems that way sometimes. They are all, in some measure or another, traumatic - but at least while he's in a Leap we know _where_ he is, what's happening to him, can do our best, through Al, to help him. We have the dubious satisfaction of feeling that we're doing _something_ , that we're not entirely powerless. In between Leaps - as now - all we can do is wait.

Wait for him to land somewhere, somewhen, and let the resultant set of circumstances carry him toward another conclusion, another happy ending.

Pray that he _will_ land. That this is not the last time, the time we all fear: the time when he will Leap ...

... and be lost to us forever.

It isn't the storm that frightens me. It's the quiet before the storm.

And here in the deserted medical centre, lying here alone, quietness is all around me.

Quietness; stillness; but not peace. Never peace.

* * *

"You," Verbeena told me, "are taking some time off." The way she said it made it abundantly clear that argument was not an option. Behind her I could see Doctor Wilkes nodding solemn agreement. With his long, mournful face and his shaggy hair, he reminded me of nothing so much as one of those stupid nodding dogs you still see sometimes in the backs of cars.

I felt too tired to argue, though I was sure there were good reasons why I _should argue_. "Am I?" I said distantly. "How long?"

The two doctors exchanged glances: frowns and raised eyebrows whose meanings I didn't care to try to translate. "A month?" Verbeena suggested. Wilkes gave a non-committal grunt, then wandered away, evidently finished with me for the time being. His bedside manner always was pretty lousy. "At least," Verbeena amended. "You're running yourself into the ground, Donna. If you don't get some rest, you're going to have a breakdown. See how much use you'll be to anyone _then_."

"If you say so," I murmured. _Anything, if you'll just go away and let me alone to sleep._ "I guess the house could do with spring cleaning ..." It was October, so I was either very early or, if you considered that I hadn't had the time or the inclination to clean the house last year either, _very_ late.

She scowled. "Uh-uh. No housework. No sneaking off to write a dissertation, either."

That was another running gag, if not a very amusing one. I hadn't published in over six years - how could I? - and neither, obviously, had Sam. So far as the rest of the scientific community was concerned, both of our whizz-kid reputations were shot.

 _Ah, but wait until we **can** publish - **then** see them sit up and take notice!_

"... I said, _rest_ \- " Verbeena was still talking, "and I meant rest. As in, vacation. Holiday. Leave of absence." She pulled up a chair beside my bed and crossed her arms, watching me. "You remember the concept?"

"Vaguely." _Sure. I remember the last vacation I took. It was six years, five months and three weeks ago, and my husband was with me. We went to see his family in Hawaii. That was the last time they saw him, too. God, how much longer can I keep on lying to them ...?_ "Okay. I'll go ..." My mind went blank. There was nowhere on this earth that I _wanted_ to go, nowhere that I wanted to be. Wherever I went, wherever I was, I would always be alone. Wherever I found myself, I knew that the one person who made my life worthwhile would be miles away from me, years away, lost to me; and without him, I didn't care much _what_ I did.

Oh sure, I could survive without him; please don't go taking me for some helpless little-girl wimp. I don't need a man, any man, to justify my sense of self-worth. Look at me: I've made it this far, haven't I?

Well? Haven't I?

"Go see your mom," Verbeena suggested. "You know she's always calling you up, asking when she's gonna see you. Make the old lady's day, why don't you?"

That was enough to shift me out of my apathy. I pushed myself up onto my elbows. "Oh, _please!_ " I said, making a face. "Sure, Beeks, like that's _really_ going to get me back on my feet again!"

She grinned and jabbed me in the arm. ("Ouch," I complained.) "She wants to mother you, Donna. She knows what it feels like to have your husband run out on you. She wants to talk girl-talk and let you cry on her shoulder." Her expression turned serious for a moment. "I guess you could do with a good cry, at that, Ms Wonder Woman."

 _In your dreams, Beeks_ , I thought. I made damn well good and sure that I _didn't_ start crying. I had an uneasy feeling that if I ever started, I might not be able to stop.

"Look at it this way." She was smiling again; sneakily, in my opinion. "If you do it now, go and make nice, you'll get her off your back, and you won't have to think about it any more. At least, not till the next time."

I lay back down, sighing. "No," I said, "but I'll have to live with the memories ... Verbeena, every time I see my mom she makes me feel like I'm fourteen years old, all knees and elbows and retainers and split ends, and I always end up doing something incredibly stupid and humiliating and embarrassing myself to death ..."

She gave another grin, a downright evil one. "Well," she offered, "that's what moms are for. To keep us deserving shrinks in business. If not for Œdipus and Jocasta," she mused, "where would we be?"

"I'm not," I pointed out sharply, "in love with _my_ mother, thank you very much. Doesn't this place already have enough basket cases for you?" It was true, we seemed to have cornered the market in job-related stress syndrome. With reason. I heaved another sigh. "Why me? How about ..." I thought for a moment. "What about Al? Huh? When was the last time _he_ ever took a break? Can't you go pick on him and let me alone?" _Sorry, Al_ , I apologised silently. _You were the first decoy that came to mind._

She shrugged. "Working on it. _He_ hasn't fallen over yet - and when he does, I'll be there waiting - "

I could picture it: Verbeena, hovering like a buzzard over the Project complex, just waiting to swoop down and get her carrion claws into the next one of us to drop.

" - but _you_ have." She pushed her chair back and stood up. "I'll get Marcy to phone for you, and make your reservations."

"You tell her, if she does, she's fired!" I yelled after her. She pretended not to hear.

* * *

"Hi, Mom," I said resignedly. My mother, whose head barely reaches my shoulder - and she in three-inch heels, too - had just flung her arms around me with a cry of "Baby!" As a beginning to the visit, this didn't bode awfully well.

The all-men-are-bastards lecture I had to endure over an incredibly stodgy lunch of creamed chicken on white rice didn't help. No use trying to convince my mother that Sam _hadn't_ left me - at least, not in the same way that daddy had left her. Not being able to tell her exactly where he was, or what he was doing, or why - which I couldn't have done even if I _had_ known - made explanations kind of complicated. And the fact that she hadn't seen my husband in more than six years, had never heard him pick up the phone, never heard me mention him - oh, to start with I tried to keep up the pretence, made up stories of what we'd done together, where we'd been; after the first few months, my invention wore thin - left her free to draw her own damning conclusions. I still put both our names on our Christmas cards; we had them printed, which saved having to forge Sam's signature (no-one else could ever read his handwriting anyway). That was about as far as it went, nowadays.

"I never liked him," she was telling me now. Quite mendaciously: she'd been crazy about him from the first time she laid eyes on him. If he hadn't already been firmly engaged to _me_ , I suspect she would've tried to grab him for herself. Not that I could blame her. He'd seemed like a pretty good deal at the time. "Those scientific types ... well, there's always going to be something more important than _you_. Something left on the Bunsen burner that they just have to get back to - "

Good old Mom. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen a Bunsen burner. Or a Petrie dish, for that matter. Some time in high school, it would probably have been. I'd given up trying to explain my work to her during midterms in my freshman year in college, when I'd discovered that she was under the impression that what I was studying was _domestic_ science. She thought physics was, quote, "unfeminine" ...

... god, maybe _that's_ why I dress up for team meetings? Maybe I'm subconsciously still trying to impress my mom?!

 _Verbeena, when I see you, I'm gonna kill you ..._

I suppressed a smile; focused back on Mom just in time to hear her say, " - some stupid scheme or project or some wretched thing or another that's more important to them than you are ..."

Her kitchen floor began to whirl, its black and white linoleum tiles swirling kaleidoscopically in front of my eyes, forming and reforming themselves into four-dimensional impossibilities straight out of Escher. I closed my eyes, closed them away; concentrated fiercely on breathing slowly and evenly. In ... and out. Again: in; out.

I said calmly, "Yes, Mom," and somehow succeeded in tuning her out.

She went on chattering; I went on shaking.

The thing that's worst of all about my mother? Every once in a while ... she gets it right.

* * *

Two days trapped in the house with my mother, with occasional time off for good behaviour in the form of trips to the mall, left me feeling mildly stir-crazy. Desperate enough to accede to mom's suggestion that I should call up "the girls" - the gaggle of fortysomethings who'd been my bosom buddies in college, twenty years ago - and arrange a night on the town.

I knew it was a bad idea. Of the original gang of five, other than myself, Lucie was happily married, busy raising a pack of rugrats - twenty minutes' worth of photographs of same - and seemed content to let her brain stagnate; Josette, who'd never been interested in sex, even in college, had never married, was teaching mathematics in public school, and had no other topic of conversation than the decline in educational standards; Tiffy and Lorene were divorced - one on the grounds of adultery (his), one for 'irreconcilable differences', which I translated into 'boredom' - and both anti-men with a vengeance. Tiffy, at least, had gone on to become managing director of a local advertising agency, and Lorene was a professional photographer, so I guess we hadn't really done _that_ badly for ourselves. But career-talk died away after the first hour; face it, none of us had very much in common any more. And all of them, having met (and been heavily smitten by) Sam at our wedding and never seen him since, wanted to hear all about him.

I told them all my six-year-old news. I didn't tell them it was six years old. They didn't seem to guess. Still, I changed the subject as quickly as possible, and didn't miss the knowing look the two divorcees shared when I did so.

And no, Lucie: no children. Which, I suppose, is as well; they'd only have had to grow up without a father, as I had - and I remembered how my father's leaving had scarred me. How could I have explained Sam's absence to a child when I couldn't even explain it to myself? And Sam: he would have missed them growing, missed so much that could never be regained ...

 _Never mind what having a child might have done for me; never mind that, unless Sam Leaps home very soon now, there never will be children. Smile, and keep on smiling, and tell yourself it's all for the best._

I changed the subject again, and waved the waiter over to our table.

Now, you have to understand that I do _not_ have a drink problem. Sam and I used to have a glass of wine with dinner; that was about our limit. Since he's been gone, I don't even bother with that. As with crying, I'm afraid of falling into a too-easy trap. If I started drinking for consolation, to block out painful memories, I might find the resultant numbness so comfortable that I wouldn't want to give it up. I'm a professional woman, with a career and a hard-won reputation to maintain; even my grief over losing Sam isn't sufficient reason to jeopardise that. Plus, I had Al's early example to warn me away from possible temptation.

But rules are made to be broken. And, in the absence of any better way to pass an interminable evening, Tiffy and Lorene and I ended up going barhopping. I should have excused myself when Lucie's husband dropped by to take her home, or when Josette announced abruptly that tomorrow was a schoolday and stalked out. But the alternative would have been to go home, and have to pretend to my mother that I'd had a good time; and besides, by then I was already considerably less in command of my faculties than I like to be.

We finished up in a jazz club that Lorene knew, tucked away in a seedy back alley somewhere. I don't really care much for jazz, but Lorene's motives for going there didn't have a great deal to do with music in any case. She might have been anti-men, but that didn't mean she was anti-sex. I watched her prowl, faintly amused, while I hunched possessively over the black coffee that my instinct for self-preservation had finally made me order. I was working on summoning up enough energy to make the decision to call a cab and get myself home, when a voice above my head said my name.

"Donna?"

I blinked upward. For a moment, all I could see against the light was a broad-shouldered silhouette topped by unruly dark-blond hair, and my heart leaped with forlorn hope. Then he moved, and I saw his face; and my treasonous heart skipped another beat, this time for a quite different reason.

I said, "Tony?!" And I stood up and walked into his waiting arms.

* * *

It had been ... I don't like to think how many years. I had been twenty eight; twenty nine when he asked me to marry him. I was thirty years old when I walked out on him.

I'd been working at the StarBright project, too involved in our research to have much time for a private life. I had half-decided that the pressure wasn't worth the rewards, was looking for something more low-key, closer to home, something that I could tie in with ... although I blush to remember it ... being a wife and a mom. That was what I'd thought I wanted.

I went back to Springfield with the intention of discussing all of those things with Tony. Somehow the discussion turned into an argument, which in turn became a bitter, spiteful quarrel. I guess, if I'm honest - and, at this distance in time, I suppose I may as well be - _I_ was mostly the one to blame; having made my own decision to put my career second, I found myself treating him as though it were _his_ fault. I threw his ring back at him, stormed out of the restaurant (yes, all this took place in public), took the first flight back to Nevada and stamped on the disc that contained my half-drafted resignation. Even then, I might have reconsidered, but for two things.

One, my friends back in Springfield took great care to let me know that Tony lost no time in consoling himself with a flight crew attendant (how tacky can you get?) named Marsha.

Two: StarBright acquired a new head of development in the holography division.

His name was Sam Beckett. And I never thought of Tony again.

Well ... maybe once or twice, when things got rough with Sam - our relationship was good, sure, but it had its rocky moments; a lot of them, since I'm still being honest - maybe once or twice I would stop and wonder, _what if ...?_

There is always that attraction, that curiosity about the road not taken.

And now I had the opportunity to explore it.

He was feeding me all the lines, all the clichés: _"It's been years, you look wonderful, you don't look a day older ..."_ I barely listened, focused only on the flare of desire that I saw in his eyes.

It had been a long time - a very long time - since anyone had last looked at me that way.

"And you?" he was saying now. "What happened to you after StarBright? I heard you got married ... are you still ...?"

I looked down at my left hand, at the wedding band that Sam had placed there fifteen years before: _for better or for worse._

"Separated," I said. And that was no less than the truth.

I'm not going to make excuses for myself. I know it was wrong, knew it even as I did it. I was using Tony - Anthony, he was calling himself now; using him, betraying Sam. And I didn't care. Hadn't I been used? Hadn't I been betrayed - over and over, again and again, in almost every Leap he took? No, no almost: in _every_ Leap, every moment that his memory still continued to deny me my existence.

Okay, so I _am_ going to make excuses. This is the deal: I was lonely. I needed some comfort. I had a history with Tony; there was still a spark. I was just sufficiently drunk to cloud my better judgement.

And in the previous six years I had had exactly one night of sex. One very wonderful night, admittedly, and if this were a movie or a gothic romance then maybe it would have been enough to last me for the rest of my life - but I'm _human_ ; the real world doesn't work that way. I'm still moderately young. I have my needs. And I need more than _that_.

Look: I never said I was a saint. I never tried to be. Never wanted to be.

I used to be a nice girl, but even nice girls can run out of patience. So when Tony handed me into the cab he'd called, told the driver an address that was definitely not my mother's, and slid his hand under the hem of my skirt ...

I put my conscience on hold, my husband out of my mind - _Swiss-cheesing can work both ways, Sam!_ \- and pretended that I was thirty years old again.

It was easy. As easy as pretending that I felt good about this.

 

**********

  


**********

 

This wasn't the first time that I had Leaped into a sexual situation - either before, after, or even, on one incredibly humiliating occasion, during. My thoughts at these times tended to be divided equally between embarrassment for myself, and sympathy for the man I'd replaced - with the occasional tinge of a blush if I let myself consider that that was _my_ physical aura that my colleagues in the Waiting Room could see, flushed and panting and frustrated.

I broke the embrace, drew away, let my hands drop to catch her hands; held them clasped in my own. Surprisingly, I felt none of the discomfort I would have expected; if it hadn't been for the glimpse I caught in the mirror beyond the woman's shoulder, the heavy-set, fair-haired stranger, I might almost have thought I had been returned to a moment in my own life. The woman who smiled up at me, dark-haired, dark-eyed, beautiful, was as much a stranger as the man in the mirror; but still, there was a sense of familiarity, of _rightness_. When she moved close to me again, lifted her arms to clasp her hands behind my neck, drew my mouth down to hers, I responded willingly, letting the suppressed desires I keep so firmly locked inside come to the surface for a little while.

Maybe I suppress my natural instincts _too_ firmly. When she stepped back, she was blinking, looking faintly surprised. Not displeased, exactly - quite the opposite - but kind of ... overwhelmed.

"Anthony ..." she breathed, and came close to me again.

There was smoke in her hair, and her mouth tasted of wine. Her eyes shone a little too brightly, and her smile was brilliant and reckless. She smelled of nightclubs and the cold of approaching fall, and the fragile, sweet nostalgic scent of Amarige ...

 _Well_ , I thought, clutching wildly at fast-flying coherency, _at least I know **my** name. Now, if I could just find out hers ... and find out what I'm doing here ... because if Al doesn't show up soon, I know what I'm **going** to be doing ..._

And if it turned out to be the wrong thing, there were going to be two extremely disappointed people in this room.

Sometimes I think Al's some kind of magician. Actually, that's one of the few talents he _hasn't_ claimed. But he certainly has a knack for turning up exactly when he's needed. I'd barely registered the thought of him when I heard the swish of the Imaging Chamber door, looked up to see him hovering anxiously a few metres away. The expression on his face was roughly equivalent to having a bucket of cold water thrown over me. Again, I broke the kiss - but gently, letting my lips slide away from hers, along her jawline to her neck, running my fingers through her hair - and led her over to the sofa.

"I'll be back in a moment," I told her. "Okay?" _My apartment, or hers?_ Black oak furniture, stark minimalist paintings on cream hessian walls, few books and no ornaments, but lots of ferns and bromeliads and one solitary huge, ugly yucca; the coffee table held a pristine copy of GQ and a volume on Frank Lloyd Wright. I guessed mine. "Can I get you anything?" _Please say no; I don't know where the kitchen is._

She gave me a warm smile, a smile that could have persuaded me to stay by her side forever without a second thought. "I'm okay. Just hurry back."

"I will," I promised, and let Al show me the way to the bathroom, stopping en route to change the microdisc. Philip Glass might have been Anthony's idea of make-out music, but it isn't _mine_. I closed and bolted the door, sank down on the wide rim of the octagonal bath. The ledge above the basin held an electric razor, Ralph Lauren soap and cologne; I'd guessed right, then. A minor achievement, but it made me feel good. Briefly.

Al's shirt was a scarlet shriek against the black porcelain of the fitments; the look in his eyes was faintly accusing.

"What?!" I demanded.

"How do you get in these situations?" he wanted to know. "A Boy Scout like you - you know, since you started Quantum Leaping, you must've kissed more women than I've had - "

"Hot dinners?" I supplied, when he hesitated.

"Than I've had," he said.

"Not possible," I murmured. He glowered at me. "At the risk of you telling me more than I really want to know ... what'm I here to do?"

He pressed some buttons on his handlink, scowled at the resulting display, pressed a few more. Scowled again; hit it; took another look, then shut it off and stowed it away in his pocket.

"Would you believe - 50% odds?"

" _Exactly_ 50%?" He nodded. "Has that ever happened before?"

He shrugged. "Does it matter? It's happening now. I'm getting a 50% possibility that you oughta ditch the broad and get out of here fast ... and another 50% possibility that you're here to - uh, to, well, to make her night."

I grimaced. "'Ditch the broad?'"

"Bogart season on the all-night movie channel," he explained. It wasn't quite an apology.

"50%?"

"Your needle's stuck, Sam."

I got up, started pacing around the small area between bath and basin and toilet. "Tell me what the situation is. Who - " I stopped, staring at the reflection that watched me from the mirror-tiled wall. He was not unlike the man I remembered once having been: a little older - well, so must I be, now - heavier in build, I thought; black Levi's, a white dress shirt that failed to conceal the oh-so-slight bulge over his belt buckle, hair a sun-bleached blond, eyes grey and, right at this moment, stormily confused. "Who I am," I finished, then looked to the door. "Who _she_ is. I know what my instincts are - "

He gave a deliberate leer. "Yeah, I just bet you do."

I pretended I hadn't heard. " - but I don't know anything about these people. So, tell me." I turned to him, setting my back to the mirror. "Let me decide, if Ziggy's not gonna play ball."

He took a deep breath. "Okay. She's a married woman. Her husband's - " His hands flared outward; I expected some startling revelation, but all he said was, " - away. And," he went on, "you're her ex-fiancé. The two of you just met again this evening, by chance - first time in more than ten years - and the sparks just flew. So you ended up here ... and that's where you came in."

"That's all?" I couldn't believe it could be so easy. "Then I have to get _out_ of here. How could Ziggy come up with 50/50 on something like _that?_ "

"Because," he said dryly, "Ziggy doesn't have the same small-town, bible belt moral streak that _you_ do. I think you tried to program it into her, but her logic circuits overwrote it."

"Al," I said patiently, ignoring his slur on my upbringing, "you know how I feel about ... adultery. And the guy - Anthony - he _was_ going to sleep with her, right? No question about it. Therefore, I must be here to keep them from ... from ..." I'd been going to say 'doing it', but that sounded juvenile, and I was stuck for a suitable alternative.

"Ziggy says 50/50," was all Al said, and he cast a glance back toward the sitting room. "She's lonely, Sam; lonely and desperate. Her husband's been gone six years now. That's a long time to wait for someone. She won't even admit it to herself, but I think she's had almost as much as she can take. I think if he doesn't come home soon, she'll break. She'll run."

I thought that the roughness in his voice must mean that he empathised with the absent husband; I knew that he had been there too. It didn't occur to me until much later to wonder how Al knew what _she_ was thinking.

"Six years?"

He nodded.

"That's as long as I've been Leaping ..."

He nodded again, watching me closely; I couldn't interpret the expression in his eyes. "Gets lonely, doesn't it?"

I moved away from the wall; I needed to sit down. He was right; I couldn't deny it. It _did_ get lonely. There were times when I would give anything, _anything_ , for a familiar hand to touch me, a familiar voice to say my name.

I try not to indulge in self-pity. I know that I don't deserve it; know that I've no-one but myself to blame for the situation that I'm in. Or so Al says. I don't really even _know_ that. He tells me that I planned this project, built the Accelerator, chose to Leap. I don't remember. I just have to take his word for it.

The way I deal with it is to weave myself into some kind of heroic fantasy, likening myself to ... I don't know: Don Quixote, the Lone Ranger, all that kind of crap. Truth be told, mostly all I am is scared.

And alone. You can't imagine how alone. Al was with me always, and for that I could never be too grateful; but to have my own life back, my own friends and family, to be _home_ ...

I would give anything.

"Why doesn't he come back?" I finally asked, finding my voice husky and dry. I coughed, tried again. "Why doesn't he at least ... I don't know. Doesn't he write - call her?"

"No." Al was shaking his head now. "He doesn't."

"Why - ?"

"He _can't_ ," Al said, and there was a tightness, a desperation in his voice that made me turn to him sharply, ready to demand explanations, but he held up his hands, forestalling me. "There are reasons, Sam. Reasons I can't tell you."

"What?" I searched my mind for an explanation ... some reason, any reason, why a man would leave a woman like _this_ one, leave her alone for six years with not even a word. "Is he a prisoner? A hostage? Some kind of undercover agent? Or just the world's biggest jerk?"

Al's mouth quirked into a faint, almost bitter smile. "You could say ... all of those things."

I sighed. "You're determined to be mysterious, aren't you? It's not as if I'm likely to do anything to affect him. I'll probably Swiss-cheese this whole Leap the moment I'm gone."

"Maybe," he admitted, but that was all he said. He punched up a few buttons on his handlink, called up the Imaging Chamber door. "It's still 50/50, Sam. The decision's up to you; I can't help you on this one. And if you decide to - " He gestured expansively with his hands, cigar in one, handlink in the other, "then I don't think you'll want me around." He grinned and raised his eyebrows. "I promise, I won't peek."

"There's not going to be anything to peek _at_ ," I called after him - but he was gone, and I was alone.

Alone but for that disconcertingly desirable presence in the next room.

Unless she had given up on me and gone home. I'd been in here quite a while. Time to get out there, face the music, make my apologies, say my goodbyes.

Jesus - he hadn't even told me her name!

Strange, how hard it was to make that decision - to let her go, to say goodbye. Even though I knew it was the right, the _only_ decision. Whatever had happened to her husband, however long he had been gone, however far away and unreachable he was, committing adultery with his wife wouldn't help either of them in the long run; all it would do would be to create a new breach, a wall of guilt and remorse and resentment.

 _But if she's going to leave him anyway ...?_ my traitor mind whispered to me.

 _I'll give her my phone number, I told it firmly. No - **Anthony's** phone number!_

In spite of myself, my resolution shook when I came back to her; saw her curled on the couch, saw her smile up at me, reach for my hand. I took her hand almost automatically, pulled her up and drew her to me, held her close for a moment ... a long moment.

 _Let her go_ , I told myself; all I was doing was prolonging the agony, putting off the inevitable.

I didn't _want_ to let her go, damnit! She felt so _right_ in my arms: the way our bodies nestled together, as though they were made for one another; familiar, as though -

I almost laughed. She looked up at me - only a little way up, she was almost as tall as I - and gave a questioning smile.

"What?"

I shook the thought away. "Nothing. I ..."

Suddenly I was overcome with the urge to tell her the truth; the certainty that she would understand. But that was crazy. I settled on a compromise. "Look ... there's something you should know. I had an ... kind of an accident. A while ago. Sometimes I forget things. I was just thinking, holding you, it was like we'd done it before." I forced an awkward smile. "And we have, of course. How could I forget that?"

She gave a mock-frown. "I seem to have a lot of forgetful men in my life," she said lightly; she didn't explain. She reached up her hands, cradled my face. "Poor baby ..."

I pulled away, uncomfortable. "I wasn't ... I'm not trying to plead for sympathy. I just thought I should tell you ..."

"You can tell me anything," she said softly. "Whatever's on your mind. I'll listen."

I put her away from me. "What's on my mind?" I locked eyes with her, begging that she _would_ listen, not turn and run, not believe herself rejected. "I'm thinking ... I'm thinking that ... we can't do this."

Her face grew sad; she shook her head slightly, and dropped her gaze. "I see," she whispered. "Maybe you're right. I guess you are ..." She began to turn, began to go away from me; and somehow, in spite of all I had decided, I couldn't let her do that, couldn't let her go; not like this, not in disappointment and anger. Somewhere deep within myself I remembered the pain of rejection; and I would not cause her pain. I _couldn't_. I reached out to her, my hand closing around her upper arm.

"Don't go." I closed my eyes for a moment. "It isn't that I don't ... don't want you."

She looked back at me; the glow in her eyes made my bones melt.

"Look," I stammered, "you're very beautiful - and I want ... I want you very much ... but I know I'm not the one that _you_ want ..." I saw the question form on her lips, and hastened on before she could voice it. "Please don't ask me _how_ I know: I just do, that's all. He's not here; and loving me won't help to ease the pain. It'll only make it worse." I drew her close to me again. "But if I can't be your lover - won't you let me be your friend? Stay with me - let me hold you ... tell me ..."

"Tell you what?" Her words were a breath, moist and warm against my ear. I closed my arms tightly about her.

"Everything. I want to be with you, be here for you ..." And I did. But it was more, so much more than that alone. Against all knowledge, all reason and sanity, everything I knew to be right: I wanted to stay with her, wanted to love her, to make love to her, to have her love me. It was more than desire; it was _need_ , burning and compelling and undeniable.

I used to believe that sex was a part of love, that they should go hand in hand; that sex without love was worthless. Nowadays I find myself more and more ready to reach out and take whatever comfort's offered, a drowning man clutching at a straw, just to have someone hold me ...

... only, of course, they never do. They never hold _me_.

I tore myself away, forcing myself. It was like a physical wound; almost, I could see the blood begin to flow. Her hands reached for me for a moment, then fell to her sides.

"You're saying one thing," she murmured, "but your heart isn't in it. Is it?"

I shook my head. "Please - _please_ , think about what you're doing - what _we're_ doing," I amended. "Think about _him_ \- how he's feeling, knowing that you're waiting for him ... it may be all that's keeping him going." I heard words echoing in my mind: Al's words. "I had a friend ... I can't tell you his name, but he was shot down during the Vietnam war, spent five years as a POW. He told me about it one time ..." I cast my mind back. For once, my much-vaunted eidetic memory was in perfect working order, allowing for the Swiss-cheese effect, but, for once, it wouldn't have mattered whether it was or not: Al's words had etched themselves on my mind like acid, that long-ago day when he had stood and looked me in the eye and told me that he believed in the devil. I echoed them now, unconsciously taking on his tone, his intonation; she listened, her eyes growing wide.

Wide - and tearful. I looked up, and saw how white she had become all of a sudden, and was instantly remorseful. I hadn't meant to hurt her.

"Are you okay?" Stupid; I could see that she wasn't. I reached out my arms to her, drew her toward me. "Here ... it's okay, don't cry. I'm sorry ..." I wasn't sure where we stood now. "Do you want me to go?" _No, wait a moment, this is supposed to be **my** apartment._ "I mean - do you want me to take you home?"

She shook her head fiercely and clung to me. "No. I don't. I want to stay ... stay here with you. Just for tonight. Please?"

Oh, god, the longing in her voice ... it echoed in the empty place within me, the prisoner in my soul that cries out for a word, a sound, a touch: _don't go away, please don't leave me here, don't let me be alone ..._

Would it be so wrong? One night, out of all the nights in the world? Who was there watching us to judge us, blame us?

I put a finger under her chin, lifted her face until her eyes met mine. My hands were trembling; my voice, too. "Is that what you really want? Just one night?"

She nodded; her voice shook as badly as my own. "One night. If you'll give me that. If we can still be friends afterwards ...?"

 _No_ , I tried to tell myself; but no part of my being paid any attention. Not my mind; not my heart. And most certainly not my body.

I made one last half-hearted not-quite-protest. "And you won't hate yourself in the morning? You won't hate _me?_ "

Her smile was quiet, mysterious, as though she were treasuring a marvellous, magical secret, one that she knew a single word might shatter, one that must never be revealed.

"No," she said softly. "I won't hate you. I may very well love you forever." And then she was in my arms, her softness pressed against me, her hands caressing me, drawing flame from within, an unquenchable fire that met answering fire from her touch.

I thought again, _This is wrong_ ...

But I didn't care. If there were to be regrets, I would save them until tomorrow.

 

**********

  


**********

It was all I could do to keep myself from speaking his name.

" _Sam?!_ "

He didn't know, couldn't know - know that I had been standing in the Control Room monitoring the Imaging Chamber signal when Al had spoken those words: spoken them exactly as he had just repeated them to me.

He didn't know. And I couldn't tell him.

Cupid and Psyche; east of the sun and west of the moon. Say the name and break the spell. And this was one spell that I could wish never to be broken.

Anthony was gone, taken by the unknown force that governs my husband's life, all our lives; this was _Sam_ , here in my arms. Sam's hands leading me to the bedroom; Sam's fingers fumbling with the zipper of my skirt and the snaps of my bodysuit; Sam's mouth on my mouth, on my neck, and on my breasts; Sam's body, solid and real, pressing close to mine, his hardness betraying the urgency of his desire, an urgency that matched my own.

Perhaps I might have guessed then, had I not already done so; I could never have mistaken Sam's lovemaking for Anthony's. Anthony was adventurous in bed, inventive and demanding. Exhausting. But still, in spite of it all, always a little ... disappointing. But Sam ... sex with Sam was never _exciting_ , exactly - just your basic vanilla, really - but what he lacked in drama, he more than made up for in intensity and single-mindedness; and in tenderness, also, and in consideration. Sam never forgot that it takes _two_ ...

In any case, I happen to be very fond of vanilla. With maybe a splash of chocolate sauce, from time to time.

When I thought about it later, rationally, I found a flicker of pity for Anthony; poor Anthony - ! But then and there, all that I knew or cared about was this gift that by some miracle I had been given.

I knew we had only a little time ...

... oh, but I could think of so many, many ways to fill it!

**********

  


**********

I woke up slowly, drowsily content, more at peace than I could remember having been in ... oh, in a long, long time; feeling the warmth of another body curled close to mine, the softness of skin, a fall of silky chestnut hair, swell of breast, curve of hip ...

The air was heady with her perfume, and with the memory of our loving. Loving that, against all sanity, had seemed right, seemed natural - as though we belonged to one another, were made for each other; had loved like this, lain like this, a hundred, a thousand times before.

As though she were a part of me; a part of my life.

A part of my life, the life that I had lost; the life that I no longer lived.

I touched her hair lightly, wanting to waken her; she turned toward me, opening drowsy eyes, and smiled slowly up at me.

She murmured my name.

She murmured _my_ name. And then she started upright, her hand going to her mouth, her eyes flying wide in dismay. And suddenly I knew.

"Donna?" I whispered; and then, " _Donna!_ " It was almost a scream, and I reached for her, clung to her, senses spinning, sobbing for breath that would not come, torn apart by sudden agony, the memory of a love not only lost, but forgotten, god, _forgotten_ ...

Forgotten until now ...

And I Leaped.

**********

  


**********

 

My mother will probably never forgive me. I had barely finished saying hello to her before I was saying goodbye again. Well, score yet one more for guilt.

I took the first commercial flight I could find that would take me in roughly the right direction - Albuquerque was the best I could manage at short notice; I settled for that. I endured the flight back to New Mexico; seethed in silence aboard the Project Cessna. Stormed off the plane at the Stallion's Gate airstrip, slammed into the waiting jeep, and tore up the tarmac, heading for my office.

It was late, and Marcy had gone home, so I typed my own letter of resignation. I managed to keep it short, with an effort. Short and to the point. Printed out nine hard copies: one to the committee, one to each other head of department. One to Al. One to Sam, to sit and gather dust in his files for who knew how many years more?

Who cared?

Who the _hell_ gave a damn?

Who gave a fuck what Mr Love-'em-and-leave-'em did?

Not me. Oh, no. Not this girl. Not any more.

There was a knock at the door. I ignored it. After a moment Al sidled in anyway, stood waiting silently, warily, just beyond the threshold. I glared up at him.

"You were there," I said flatly; not a question. For god's sake, how many people _knew?_ Al, for one. Gushie, no doubt. Verbeena ... Christ, had the whole of Imaging Control been listening in?

At least, mercifully, _Sam_ should have Swiss-cheesed the whole sorry affair. I only wished I could do the same.

He admitted it. "For a while."

"How long?" What was it I'd said to Verbeena? That my mom made me do things that were stupid, juvenile, humiliating?

Well, this time I'd managed it all by my ownsome. Maybe I should consider it progress.

Maybe I'd prefer to crawl away and forget it ever happened at all.

"Not very." Al's voice was unusually gentle. "Just long enough to give him the odds."

"The _odds?!_ " My voice was shrill. That - _computer_ \- was giving odds on _my_ sex life? Just let me get my hands on a crowbar ...

He just nodded. "That was all I thought I _could_ do. I could see so many ways it could go ..." He spread his hands, smiled wryly, helplessly. "So many ways to screw everything up ... with _my_ track record on relationships - I didn't dare try to push it, either way." He cocked his head on one side, gazing at me with uncomfortable intensity. "He stayed?"

I had to confirm it, though I did so unwillingly. "He stayed," I said. "All night. And right at the end ... he remembered me."

That shocked him; I could see it in his eyes, although his face remained calm. "He did?!"

"Uh-huh." My voice took on an edge. "And then he Leaped. And I was left with an armful of very confused ex-fiancé, whose ego will probably never recover. I ran out of there so fast - didn't even stop to shower." I shot a suspicious glare at him; he'd given something that sounded suspiciously like a muffled snort of laughter. "It isn't funny!"

"I know," he said placatingly. "I know."

"I'm quitting." I threw a copy of my letter at him. He read it, eyebrows raised, then looked up at me and sighed.

"You are _not_ quitting," he said patiently. "You know you're not. We need you too much - _Sam_ needs you ..."

All the loneliness, all the frustration, all the bitterness pent up inside of me for the past six years - six lousy, lonely, miserable, _unbearable_ years - suddenly welled up and boiled over, loosing itself in a tirade of sheer animal fury.

"The _hell_ with what he needs!" I almost howled it, like a jackal baying at the moon. "How about what _I_ need? Just _once_ \- what about _me?_ I'm sick of being a saint! Sick of being a martyr! Sick of being loyal and patient and dutiful - sick of waiting - sick of having him fall for every pretty face that he sees - sick of knowing that he's sick and hurt and wounded and I can't go to him, I can't help - having to stand by and wait and hope and watch and pray and do _nothing_ \- I'm sick to death of it, Al! I can't _stand_ it - I can't take it any more!" And I picked up my coffee cup, hurled it across the room, and watched it shatter against the wall. The pencil pot followed it; then the phone. He grabbed the modem just in time.

There was a moment's stunned, absolute silence. Then,

"Do you feel better now?" Al enquired. The slant of his eyebrows, the tone of his voice revealed nothing more than mild curiosity.

I stifled a giggle; clear evidence of hysteria, I registered. "A little," I had to admit. Mostly, truthfully, I felt stupid. I wrapped my arms around myself, fingers clutching elbows, not sure why I was shivering; the room wasn't cold. "I'm sorry, Al."

"No, you're not," Verbeena announced; a brisk, stand-no-nonsense refutation. I hadn't even heard her come in, but I wasn't particularly surprised; I suspected my little outburst must have drawn attention from miles around. Every coyote and stray dog in New Mexico was probably setting up a yowl of sympathy. "And if you are," she added, "then don't be. You ought to have done that years ago, girl."

I shrugged, mumbled something meaningless and incoherent; she smiled. One of her smug, professional, know-it-all smiles. God, she can be so irritating.

"Lord," she went on, obnoxiously cheerful, "don't you think we haven't seen it building? We've been waiting for the explosion ever since that last time,"

That time when Sam had come back; had stayed for less than half a day. I hadn't thought I would survive that second loss; I'd tried to cling to him, had held him until the last possible fraction of a second. When the retrieval program failed - I felt the pain in my heart, and I thought I knew what it was to die. But no-one dies for love. I had _made_ myself survive, forced myself to suppress my emotions for the good of the Project; for Sam's sake. And now I was paying the price. Migraines and misery and one-night stands with a stranger.

He didn't even know me. I could have been anyone.

Just another Leap. Just another task that had to be accomplished: _your mission, should you decide to accept it ..._

Except that he doesn't even get to make the decisions. If god or fate or time tells him to make love to a complete stranger, then that's what Sam's going to do. Oh, perhaps he'll put up a token protest; but nothing stronger. After all, why should he? He has no ties to bind him. Does he?

Not any longer. Not that he knows. Or, it seems, cares.

Am I so easy to forget? Did our love mean so little to him?

For god's sake, he's a _scientist_ ; can't he apply logic? _"I'm an attractive, intelligent man in my mid-forties; if I'm **not** in a settled relationship, then what the hell is wrong with me?!"_

Maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe, subconsciously, he likes to believe he's free. Maybe that's what he wanted all along.

For as much as he remembers, for as much as I have to show for it, all the years of our married life may as well never have existed at all. There are photographs that no one looks at; a piano in my living room that no one ever plays. Clothes in the closets that no one ever wears, books on the shelves that nobody will ever read.

Nothing more.

"You oughta break more coffee cups," Verbeena offered. She crossed the room, bent and picked up the fragments, dropped them in the trash. "Maybe then you'd have less headaches." She came around the desk, put her arms around my shoulders and hugged me. I hugged back, feeling light-headed and embarrassed and - worst of all - weepy.

"You're not going to quit," Al said. He spoke quietly, but I started nonetheless; I had almost forgotten he was there.

I shrugged again.

 _Have you been there while he sleeps, Al? Have you seen him jerk awake out of a nightmare, heard him crying out for something he doesn't even know he's lost?_

 _Because I have. And it's more than I can take._

 _He could have stayed here, stayed here safe with me. But he went back - back into the Accelerator, back into the past. Back for **you**. And I have to pretend I don't resent that. Because I know that you regret it every bit as much as I do._

He was watching me, his eyes full of compassion; sympathy, understanding. Oh, he knew what I was thinking! He knew.

He put out his hand.

"Come on."

"What - ?" But I knew where we were headed: toward Control, toward the Imaging Chamber. "Al - no - we agreed - "

"Just this one time," he said, snatched up a handlink and keyed open the door. It slammed shut behind us with ominous finality, like the closing of a tomb.

For a moment all was space and emptiness: a blank page awaiting the writer's pen, the artist's brush. Then the air wavered, and images began to form: images that were fuzzy and unfocused, seen by me only through my touch to Al's hand and the partial neuronic link that Sam had begun to establish with me before we had discovered that my system couldn't support it. Already I felt the beginnings of too-familiar nausea.

I gritted my teeth and hung on, determined, now that I had come so far, to see this through.

The image solidified: a teenager's bedroom, early '70s, at a guess. Posters thumb-tacked to the wall, of Mucha and Rackham and the Grateful Dead; a huddle of soft toys on a white plank shelf; more shelves, crowded with books and old vinyl LPs (Tolkien and Peake, Laura Nyro and Janis Ian); a messy, muddled dressing table, tangled with beads and bangles and half-used sticks of makeup; a narrow single bed pushed against the wall, draped in shawls and Indian blankets. And on the bed, curled in fitful sleep, lay a figure more blurred than all the others. A young girl, fifteen or sixteen years old: stick-thin, pale skin, long, straight blonde hair, a muslin smock and patched blue jeans ...

And, wavering, superimposed, another image: a grown man, tall and solidly built, hair dark-blond and tousled, eyes - I knew - hazel-green beneath the smudged lids, dressed incongruously in the same smock, the same jeans ...

And on both their faces, the same dark-purple bruises, the same traces of tears.

"He Leaped in just as her father was beating her up," Al said softly. "He got caught by surprise. Her dad knocked him cold."

My throat surprised me, letting out a protesting, involuntary whimper. I'd thought that I was beyond caring; evidently, I was wrong. Al's hold on my hand tightened protectively.

"He's okay! He'll be all right. And the next time the old man tries it on with the kid - he's gonna get a big surprise." He looked at me. "You okay?"

I nodded, which was far from the truth. I might just about be able to stay on my feet for another minute, if I really set my mind to it.

"He's doing what he has to," Al said. "Doing a lot of good."

"I know," I said quietly. "I know."

He's doing the only thing he _can_ do. He has no other choice.

But not only strangers hurt.

I let go of Al's hand, walked forward. The image darkened; I held it in my mind. I knelt by the bed, reached out my hand.

"Remember me," I whispered; no more than a breath. "Come back to me. Please come back." I touched my fingers to the outline of his face, remembering the years of our marriage, when speech and touch and taste had been things that we took for granted; touched only empty air. But he stirred, almost as though he could feel my touch; turned, as he had turned to me that morning; opened his eyes ...

Looked up at me. Saw me. Knew me.

He said, " _Donna ...?_ " And his fingers reached for mine, touching, as mine had, only emptiness.

And then I fainted, I think. I know that the next time I opened my eyes, I was lying on the Control Room floor, Al's purple velvet jacket wadded up under my head, Tina bringing me glasses of water, Doctor Wilkes telling the world in general what he thought of all of us. I shut my eyes again and let them all fade away; let myself remember ...

The look in his eyes; the love in his eyes. The desolation and the yearning; the desperation and the need.

All that I felt, all that I endured - he suffered it too. The more so since he was alone. I had my friends, my work, my _life_. He had none of that. Not even his own identity.

And I closed my eyes tighter, and I prayed to whatever gods would listen: _let him forget._

The fewer the memories, the less to regret. Let _this_ memory - the memory of the love we used to have, the agony of the years lost that could never be regained, the anguish of uncertainty, the intolerable, interminable _waiting_ \- let that be _my_ burden to carry; mine, and mine alone.

I would give anything, do anything, to have him back again; to have him safe, unhurt, unharmed.

I would give everything I have, everything I have ever had, if I could save him from a moment's pain. What was the harm he had done to me, compared to the harm he had done himself? It paled by comparison.

You don't stop loving someone because they made a mistake. However foolish. However thoughtless. Whatever the consequences.

You don't condemn a man for having the courage of his convictions.

The Project _was_ his life. I knew that when I married him. Even at StarBright he had been driven, obsessed. How had I been surprised, that night that he Leaped? In my heart I must always have known that I could not hope to hold him forever.

And so now I would wait; patiently, setting aside anger and resentment, loneliness and fear and sorrow. Wait for the rest of my life, if need be. But it wouldn't be forever. It couldn't be.

I would _not_ give up. We _would_ bring him home. One day. Working together, somehow we would find the answer. Somehow we would retrieve him. Whatever it took, no matter what the cost - I would do it, I would pay. If I must search for him east of the sun and west of the moon, then I would so so. And I would find him. I would bring him home.

And then, oh, god, _then_ he would remember me.

I opened my eyes again, fighting waves of dizziness. "Al?" I asked.

He was at my side in an instant. "What is it, honey?" Concern and guilt. I wished I could reassure him, but had barely the strength to say what I must say.

"You can tear up my resignation," I whispered; closed my eyes once more, gladly, and drifted back into forgetfulness.

Back to that place in memory, in my heart, where Sam was with me always.

Would be with me always. Forever.

And now I had one more memory to treasure. One Leap, made only for me.

It was something to be thankful for. It was a beginning.

And not, after all, an end.

* * *


End file.
